


Baby there's no need to fear, baby there's no need to cry

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: Crowley sings to keep his anxiety at bay. He tries his trick on Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 80
Collections: COW-T - the Clash Of the Writing Titans





	Baby there's no need to fear, baby there's no need to cry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this week's M4, prompt "I’m on watch here, so close your eyes and get some rest".  
> (oh! I forgot! Come say hi to me on [ Tumblr](http://bebrave-andbekind.tumblr.com)! I'm always looking for new friends to talk Good Omens with!)

It's something new, something priceless, something as sweet as a newly fallen apple. Crowley bites it, lets his teeth break the skin and sink in the crisp pulp, lets its juice drooling down his arm.

///

He was there, the first time a human sang. It was a boy, quite young but no longer a child, alone and lonely in an open field with his flock of sheep. One of them had died, that night, and he was still weeping, still tearing up. Crowley (Crawly, at the time) doesn't remember why he was there; he probably was just bored, or probably drunk (as he often was when bored), or probably lonely as well. The boy had been near the corpse for hours, praying God to give it back. (She never listens, he wanted to shout, but he didn't. He knew how faith was important for humans; he didn't want to shatter it for them.) Crowley was near him, in snake form on his belly, hidden in a bush. He didn't remember why he was there. (truth is, he's perfectly aware of that; that boy looked miserable, miles away from his family, doing a job he hated. But he didn't hate the sheep, he loved them even, and there were black, muddy clouds around him when that sheep died all of a sudden; and Crowley always had a soft spot for kids, even when they weren't agents of chaos.) Suddenly something strange filled the air, something he had never heard before. Words made soft, slick, brought by a wind, convoluting around his body like curls of smoke. He poked his head out; he saw the boy weakly stroking the sheep's fur as the words were escaping from his mouth, and they were slippery, made of water, infiltrating under his skin. He kept from slithering towards the boy, who would have only tried to kill him; he stayed in his hiding spot, bathing in that new kind of prayer.

Then the humans invented musical instruments. Lovely, clever humans. Trumpets, lyres, lutes, cymbals. He was particularly fond of the castanets because they were noisy and made a delightful clicking sound that, after a while, drove people mad, especially when flicked near stressed ears. (when crossed, he loved to wear a female corporation, a long skirt and follow the man who wronged him or Aziraphale or someone he fancied that time, until the man begged to be left alone. Crowley usually complied after a generous sum of money.) And then he found out that it was a song, that cluster of words that slipped out the boy's mouth, and that those words could be smooth, pebble-like, or rough and full of regrets like a flood, or joyful and light like a beating heart.

There was a festival because there was a new baby in the village after five years; there were food and wine and laughter and nothing malicious for miles and miles. But he knew the woman who had the baby, he had tempted her to leave her boring husband for a man with long hair and a bad reputation; how would have Crowley known that he would have been a faithful and attentive husband, and probably a wonderful father too? Anyway, the woman had a difficult birth (which he could have or could have not eased with a small miracle, but only because her mother was being a pain in the arse and he had to be restrained from killing her right on the spot) and he wanted to celebrate. With all that wine, temptations were easy.

Then, when a little girl started dancing around him, he remembered that angels sang, too. Not every and each one of them; only the most loved ones. And he realized, like a thorn in his veins, that he had had a voice, before the Fall. Memories flooded him, scorching and all pulp, and he fell on his knees. He had had a voice, one made of honey and stars and rose petals. He had sung for Her whilst creating the stars, whilst She thought about the Earth, to keep her company. He felt Her gaze like he had had during those days, and he felt pins piercing his skin, blood dripping out. He found himself short of breath, on his knees in the dirt. The little girl stopped dancing; she knelt too, trying to find Crowley's face touching him everywhere. When she couldn't, she started petting his hair, whispering “There, there, there's nothing to cry about” over and over again, in a tone she clearly stole from her mother. And when it was clear he couldn't stand, he couldn't even lift his head, she started singing. It was a lullaby meant for crying toddlers, words and language lost in time (which Crowley remembers letter by letter), and it was as sweet as milk, warm and soothing. Crowley lifted his face, his eyes met the little girl's; she was smiling, open and sincere, and started singing louder a new song, something about birds and pretty flowers and fair maidens from a faraway land. She offered him her hands, because she wanted to dance with him; he accepted, and she was thrilled. They danced until her feet started hurting, and then Crowley scooped her in his arms, kept on dancing. At some point he dared to start to sing, too, shyly, stumbling, his voice barely a whisper – but she heard him, and was so happy she started singing again, and then Crowley had to follow her lead, because how could he say no to a child that joyous? He wasn't trembling any more, and there was something else inside him, like a cherry seed.

He still had a voice. It was scratchy, blood-spotted, but it wasn't ashy, it wasn't made of rust or mud. It wasn't made for worship either. It wasn't made for poetry and celebrations and to sing high praises of the Lord. But it was his. He still liked his voice, even if She didn't.

He started singing in the woods, into empty wells, in churches left to die – he especially liked those, because the irony wasn't lost to him. He started singing when he only wanted to cry, when he was alone and didn't want to be. And at some point he started singing when he was thinking of Aziraphale. It was spontaneous, words and music born in the hollows between his ribs, blooming on his teeth. He would tend his plants, or take a stroll through a crowded street, and he would catch a glimpse of blond hair, or the smell of freshly baked bread, or a snippet of a busy conversation about books or theatre or pottery, and he would start humming, would start to fill the hole with music.

///

(he stopped, somewhere between 1720 and 1760. Doesn't know why, doesn't remember. Maybe the hole was too large, too deep. Or maybe it wasn't comforting any more. Maybe it was somehow scorching, when he would sing but the stains were still there, waiting to grown teeth.)

///

Something stings him all of a sudden, like a wasp in an empty park. He was minding his business, screaming at his plants (how dare the ficus' leaves being dry, after all the undivided attention they got? They were asking for it, disobedient foul beasts), when a pit has opened near his bellybutton – a pit with poisonous teeth and claws, with a voice gravelling and thunderous. Watering can forgotten on the table, he's now pacing back and forth through the room, arms around his torso. He feels heavy, suffocated by his own body, skin too tight, too stretched on his bones. Something is gnawing its way off his stomach. He knows this, this is not the first time it's happened, but this is stronger, its hold more forceful around him. Somehow the air is heavier, burns through his lungs. _This is bullshit, this is fucking bullshit_ , he thinks feverishly, words full of spikes and bouncing against his skull. Everything is all right, they're at peace. (after a couple of months, he has realized that he has started to think plurally, as if they were joined by the hip.) There's no reason for this – and then he feels worse, because he feels stupid – _a fucking loser, a nutjob, what are you thinking about? Why are you like this? Everything is calm, what the fuck are you thinking about? Do you miss that war-like existence? Constantly feeling on the verge of a cliff? You're a fucking idiot_.

“I'm not!”, he screams, resisting the urge of breaking a vase. “This happens, I'm not stupid!”

_Then fucking do something!_

“I'm trying!”

_You're not, fucking useless piece of shit!_

“Shut the fuck up!”

He feels his nails turning into claws, scales rippling down his neck; his canines are turning into fangs, and punctures the skin when he bites his lip down.

 _Sing. Sing like you used to_. (this voice sounds like someone else.)

And he instantly does, because he's desperate, and he sings the first thing that comes to mind - “I fought the law and the law won...” - and, like a spell, his body calms down. Claws and fangs retreat, his skin returns human. The sea is calm, smooth. He doesn't care where the storm came from. And he is singing again, and it doesn't burn.

(he has never talked to Aziraphale about this. Doesn't know why. Maybe because it isn't something suited for a demon, maybe because it was too angelic, too heavy for him. Ironically, it felt sinful not to tell him, like something forbidden. It wasn't thrilling, though.)

Aziraphale is silent, doesn't even whistle whilst dusting the books. He seems faded, washed down. Crowley is looking at him, legs dangling from the sofa, an empty cup of cocoa on his stomach. He has learned to like sweet things, and Aziraphale makes an incredible hot cocoa, rich and comforting. It's winter outside, a bloody cold November, and he can't feel his hands. With a swirl of his finger, the cup is hot again.

“Angel?”, he calls, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice. He's ignoring him, and Crowley hates few things more than being ignored by Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale,” he calls again, and this time he sighs, rather nervous. What does he want? Can't he see that he's busy? No, he doesn't look busy at all, but Crowley doesn't tell him.

“Angel, I can tell something's wrong. Tell me.”

There's nothing to tell. Nothing is wrong with him, but everything is wrong around him – the temperature of the room isn't right, they won't restock his favourite tea until the next month, and Crowley forgot to bring him those éclair au chocolat he asked for yesterday. Crowley didn't forget, the bakery was closed and Aziraphale is feeling very particular these days and doesn't want pastries from any other shop, so there weren't many possibilities. Crowley, again, doesn't tell him that. There's something blue around Aziraphale, something thin and electric. Something he knows very well.

“You can tell me the truth, you know.”

Sure he knows, but that's not it, he's right, it's just that – he groans, uncharacteristically at a loss of words.

“Today sucks.”

Yeah, today sucks (“Well, yes, today isn't the greatest day, but I wouldn't use that kind of language.”) and that's it. There's nothing wrong with him, so Crowley can leave him alone.

He's taken aback by Aziraphale's tone, by the tense posture of his body. Aziraphale flinches, his lips curled, and he turns his back to him.

Then he starts crying. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he breaks down. He clings to the bookshelf, but the waves are too strong, and he falls before Crowley can catch him, sobbing loudly. Crowley is at his side in a heartbeat, doesn't leave him alone a moment more. His breath is laboured, rapid as rabbit's lungs.

“Can I touch you, angel?”, he asks him, voice as soft as a spring cloud. Aziraphale shakes his head; he's fine, he's peachy, he will be right as rain in no time, maybe there's a problem with his corporation, maybe the winter is starting to affect him as well, maybe...

“Angel, would you listen to me? There's nothing wrong with your body, sometimes it happens. We were under an awful amount of stress, this is... rather normal.”

Yes, indeed they were, but it was months ago, it doesn't make a lick of sense.

“It does, angel. Can I try something? Can I take your hand?”

Yes, he can take his hand. Just that, nothing else. Crowley smiles, places it on his heart, like a goddamn book heroine – _I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!_ -, and slightly open his mouth, kissed whispers flying in the air.

“ _I don't need your photograph to keep by my bed, your picture is always in my head..._ ”, he starts, looking at him right in the eyes. “You know this song, don't you, angel?”

He does, it's quite a lovely song, but what has it to do with him now?

“s' just a trick. Like one of your magic ones. _I don't need your portrait dear, to bring you to mind, for sleeping or waking dear, I find_... sing with me, angel, can you do it for me?”

He tries, then he hiccups and can't any more. He gulps, and tries again, but his voice shrinks; Crowley squeezes his hand. “ _The very thought of you and I forget to do the little ordinary things that everyone ought to do_... try again, angel, it will do wonders.”

He can't understand why he should, it's been millennia since he sang, and it's not something an angel could do without a worshipping purpose, and this clearly is not. Crowley thinks of some witty comeback, but Aziraphale isn't in any state to endure it. So he just scoots nearer, picks up the other hand, and starts again. “ _I'm living a kind of daydream and I'm happy as a king..._ ”

He keeps going, as gentle as first snow, and Aziraphale's breath starts subduing, and he closes the distance between them, until he can tuck his head under Crowley's chin. His eyes are red and puffy, but at least he's not crying any more. He even starts singing under his breath, with a summer voice. Crowley can picture him as one of Mommy's favourite, precious little cherub as he was. “ _It's just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love_ ,” they end in unison. Aziraphale is curled up between his legs, and Crowley is extremely proud, because it worked.

“Do you feel like talking about it?”, he asks, tone velvety and light against his hair. He cards his fingers through his curls.

“Not particularly, no,” Aziraphale sniffs, “Not at the moment. Later, maybe.”

“Is there something else you want?”

“Keep singing. Please, my love.”

“Of course, angel, just pick a song.”

He chooses, and Crowley sings.


End file.
